Cogswell and his staff went off, leaving Joe looking after them. Even the marshal's staff members were top men, any of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again. Although it must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn't taking any chances whatsoever. Cogswell and his officers were undoubtedly here at the airport for the same reason as Joe. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield-to-be, before the issue was joined.
Max was standing at his elbow. "Who was that, sir? Looks like a real tough one."
"He is a real tough one," Joe said sourly. "That's Stonewall Cogswell, the best field commander in North America."
Max pursed his lips. "I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots of times on Telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller than that."
"He fights with his brains," Joe said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. "He doesn't have to be any taller."
Max scowled. "Where'd he ever get that nickname, sir?"
"Stonewall?" Joe was turning to resume his chair and magazine. "He's supposed to be a student of a top general back in the American Civil War. Uses some of the original Stonewall's tactics."
Max was out of his depth. "American Civil War? Was that much of a fracas, captain? It musta been before my time."
"It was quite a fracas," Joe said dryly. "Lot of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons it was fought seemed about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally I—"